


A Brief Stan-terlude

by Sock_Lobster



Series: It's a Stan-derful Life [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, First Time Fingering, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:10:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sock_Lobster/pseuds/Sock_Lobster
Summary: Rural Illinois is honestly not that great, it turns out.





	A Brief Stan-terlude

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the stupidly long sequel no one asked for that I'm working on. [There _is_ a story behind why this exists.](https://sock-lobster.tumblr.com/post/171394158385/so-i-did-a-thing-and-if-youre-exceptionally) It's a rather dumb one.
> 
> Warnings: Absolutely nothing of importance happens. This is just porn + feelings.

Rural Illinois is honestly not that great, it turns out. Maybe they should have just kept driving instead of stopping to check out some local ghost stories. At the time, it had seemed like a nice diversion. A good way to stretch out the trip. A good way to avoid Jersey for a little longer. The kids wouldn't even be able to guilt them about it, and Ford could lie to himself it was necessary because it was definitely supernatural. Solid win, in Stan's books. It worked in Nebraska.

Now Stan's rethinking this.

"What were you _thinking_?"

Stan shrugs, and more mud sloughs off him onto the already muddy ground. Ford dances back a step and continues looking horrified. It's a bit rich.

"I wasn't thinking. I was following direction. 'Don't let it get away, Stanley!' and it just happened to be going that way," Stan says, gesturing towards the pond. Some of the muck flings off him and back home in the process.

"It was probably just a category one, and there was a _cliff_!"

"Well… not that big of one. More a ledge," Stan says like he totally knew it was there beforehand and didn't go down screaming, saved serious injury probably only by virtue of landing in a stinking pond. Details, details.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine. Just gross," Stan says with another shrug. "What do you want from me?" Ford makes a series of over the top, annoyed, angry, and disbelieving expressions before sighing heavily.

"A— a shower, at the minimum." He covers his nose and mouth with one hand and stares at Stan over his own fingers with angry, watering eyes. "This minor diversion can wait. Do you suppose there's a fire hydrant nearby?"

Stan stares back flatly for a beat before looking around the woods and putting his hands up to silently say, _"What do you think?"_

"Well, fine," Ford agrees. "But do you actually want to get in the car like that?"

Stan looks down at himself, absolutely caked in mud and green pond muck. The watery culprit behind him bubbles helpfully. He smells like fish and death. "I'm open to suggestions," he admits.

Ford groans behind his hand and gives Stan helpless eyes. Stan considers, briefly, flicking some of the filth at him, but in the ongoing war between "Mess with My Brother" and "Don't Piss-off Guy Who Sucks My Dick", the latter wins this battle, and Stan keeps his mud to himself. Though it's probably gonna be a while before any dick-sucking happens with the state he's in.

"Well, I guess the clothes are the biggest problem right now?" he offers.

"I'm prepared to vaporize them if you're willing to strip down."

Stan winds up in his underwear in the backseat of the car, wrapped in an old blanket while Ford drives with the windows all rolled down. His clothes are a pile of ash in the woods, and he's cold. Ford drives like someone with a genius IQ that doesn't actually remember how _cars_ work, which is fun, and it takes nearly thirty minutes to get to a little town and a little hotel. Stan's shivering by the time Ford checks them in and lets Stan into the room.

"Well, the complimentary supplies should get you started," says Ford. "I'll make a run to the nearest convenience store for more and other goods."

"That seems excessive," Stan says flatly, standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in the blanket like a robe.

"I'm sure you're hungry if nothing else," Ford says, and he closes the hotel door.

"Eh." Stan shuffles into the bathroom. He drops the blanket and peels himself out of his underwear; those he sticks in the waste bin, tying the plastic bag shut. The blanket should probably go in a dumpster.

For the first several minutes, as the dried mud and sludge rehydrates, the water runs off various shades of green and brown. Stan does blow through all the little soaps and shampoos. He still doesn't feel clean after, but thankfully the shower stays warm until Ford gets back and thrusts a bottle of dish soap into the stall.

"Are you serious right now?" Stan asks, but he takes the bottle and does his best anyway.

When he finally emerges from the shower, the muck is gone, the blanket's gone and it kinda feels like the top layer of his skin is, too. Ford comes in while Stan's gingerly toweling down and _sniffs_ him.

"Okay," Ford says with way too much relief.

"You weren't the one covered in it."

"No, but I do live with the one who was," Ford says, exiting the bathroom again.

"I feel like my skin's crying," Stan calls after him.

"It seems intact, just pink," Ford calls back. "I got you lotion as well."

Stan finishes rubbing his hair dry and looks around, finding no lotion in the small space available. He drops the towel in the corner to shuffle out of the bathroom in the buff, and once out, he takes one look at the bed and decides that's the real objective here. His skin can cry all it likes. After snatching the decorative comforter off the top, he flops down face first with no intention of moving again, maybe ever.

"The lotion's on the nightstand," Ford says from the small table where Stan briefly noticed him going over a map. Stan grunts at him in noncommittal reply and falls quiet.

This gives him about five minutes of peace before Ford says, "Are you alright?"

"'M fine," Stan mumbles.

"Put some lotion on; you'll regret not doing so."

"Too tired."

"Hm," Ford says. He doesn't say anything else for long enough that Stan's tricked into thinking Ford will let him sleep in peace, but then as Stan's feeling the sweet coming of unconsciousness, Ford speaks again. "Does anything _hurt_?"

Stan sighs. "Just my back, but that's from driving."

"You could let me drive more."

"My car doesn't deserve that." Stan has gotten and avoided paying for more traffic violations than perhaps any man still allowed to drive —or, to be more specific, any man who still drives, regardless of whether or not he should be, legally speaking— but he's gotta draw the line somewhere.

Ford scoffs; then the cheap chair scritches across the cheap carpet, and footsteps approach the bed. Soft cloth noises Stan can't identify follow. "You're lying the wrong way."

"Allow me to demonstrate how much I care." Stan stays exactly where he is, lying across the bed rather than with it.

"Suit yourself," Ford says with faint exasperation, and then there's a click and—

 _Cold_ , splashing on Stan's back.

"Hey, what—" Stan tries turning over only for Ford to push him back flat.

"Stay still, Stanley," Ford says, hands on Stan's shoulders. "You'll get lotion everywhere." Stan stops, and the hands move downwards to the warming pool of lotion in the small of his back. 

_"Holy shit,"_ Stan thinks as Ford starts smoothing the lotion over his skin, slowly sweeping across his back, shoulders, arms…

Stan gets hard because of course he does. How could he not? Ford's hands reach his, the lotion slicking the movement. It's completely unnecessary for Ford to fleetingly twine their fingers together, which is how Stan knows he's being messed with. Ford's just going to get him riled up and then pull away, say, "Clearly you're not that tired. Now take care of your own hygiene," or something.

Because it's that or Ford's being sweet. Seems unlikely.

"If you're trying to fuck with me—"

"Hush, would you," Ford says, very close to the back of Stan's head. The bed shifts, and Stan thinks Ford's kneeling beside him now. A little shiver runs down his spine. He decides to gamble on Ford being nice by following direction and falling quiet. It couldn't hurt, could it?

Ford's hand reverse course, though now he pushes under to get the other side of Stan's arms as he slides back to his chest. Stan holds back an unmanly giggle when Ford reaches his armpits; it tickles, but he's deeply invested at this moment in not putting Ford off. Ford does pull away then, but only long enough to gather more lotion from the puddle on Stan's back. 

When Ford's hands wriggle between his chest and the hotel mattress, Stan inhales sharply, though. Ford's fingers meet each other in Stan's chest hair, and Stan has a moment of startled anticipation before Ford moves down enough for his hands to brush against Stan's nipples. Stan gasps. Ford rubs his palms over them before circling them with his fingers. More shivers run through Stan, and _this isn't fair_.

Stan appreciates playing dirty when _he's_ the one doing it, but Ford making him lie still while also pinching his nipples until they're painfully hard against too-rough hotel sheets is cruel.

"Ford—"

"Shush," Ford says, continuing on. His fingers move on to run under what Stan would still prefer to think of as his pecs, though he's well aware they're definitely manboobs at this point. It feels way better than it should.

"Lift up a little," Ford says right in Stan's ear. Stan obeys, raising his hips to lift his belly off the sheets because at this point he's ninety-percent sure this is sex. There's still the possibility Ford is fucking with him, but odds seem higher it's just fucking, and Stan's willing to go along and see where Ford gently rubbing his stomach with lotion takes them. It can't be anywhere _bad_. Weird maybe, but that's Ford for you.

In fact, anticipation strikes again as Ford's hands move lower, and it takes a lot of willpower on Stan's part to not start humping the mattress like a dog.

"Ford," he says again, roughly, now meaning it to be _"grab my dick and make me come already"_.

Ford kisses Stan's ear, and he says, "Back down," slipping his hands to Stan's back and pushing him flat. Stan's dick is left untouched and pressed between the mattress and his slicked stomach.

"Oh my god, you _are_ fucking with me," Stan whines.

"How so? I'm being nice, Stanley. You like telling me to be nice," Ford says, further away from Stan's ear now. His hands are rubbing in the small of Stan's back, digging in on either side of the spine. It feels good, Stan's not gonna deny that, but it is definitely not the kind of _good_ he was hoping to be feeling by now.

"Don't play innocent," Stan says. "You're almost as bad at it as I am."

"That's hard to fathom," Ford says. "Out of lotion," he adds, and that's all the warning Stan gets before more is squirted onto his back, the cold feeling even sharper now that Stan's so damn turned on. Stan shivers, and Ford leans in again to say, "Hope that's alright."

"You're a cruel man, Stanford Pines," Stan says very seriously.

"It's only a little lotion," Ford says _innocently_ while leaning away, and he really is bad at it. Stan laughs for half a beat before Ford's slick hands leave his back to slip lower. The laughter dies in his throat, turning to a groan as Ford rubs his ass.

Stan's a simple man, with simple needs, and right now he needs to find something else to focus on. His brain throws up a dozen different thoughts, trying to distance himself from the feeling of Ford's hands circle on him. Still gotta find the ghost light, need to get clothes and probably start carrying an extra pair around— all very unsexy thoughts that still do absolutely nothing to stop how much Stan's hips want to start moving. He's not going to give Ford the satisfaction of seeing him fuck the bed. He's _not_.

Then Ford's fingers run under his asscheeks to meet at his taint before moving up. Stan bites the sheets and digs his own fingers into them. It doesn't stop the sound his throat makes, somewhere between a moan and a sigh, but he stays still even as his ass is spread and lotion is rubbed over his hole.

They haven't even _done_ this. Yeah, Stan's always been aware in a general sense that gay sex meant mouths, cocks, asses, and to some degree, cocks _in_ asses, and he's pretty sure he's done some of that in another life, but so far in this relationship, Ford's been kind enough to not remind Stan of that. It's been handjobs, blowjobs, and surprisingly gentle facefucking, and Stan's a coward who hasn't brought up anything else, in either direction.

Something about "So, do you like either my dick or my ass enough to want to, _y'know_ …" is a scary question. 

Faced with it now, Stan finds its possible that he's more scared by how much it _doesn't_ scare him. That's a thought that only barely makes sense, but it's true. He's too old for this kind of introspection.

But his hips don't agree. He loses his control over them, and they start rocking back and forth between the mattress and Ford's hands.

Above him, Ford says, "You're not holding very still."

"Oh, fuck you," Stan says, laughing in spite of himself. Bravado takes over, and he asks, "You gonna do something with those fingers or what?"

Ford makes a noise like he's actually considering the question. Stan's gonna kill him one of these days.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to be thorough," Ford says, and he follows it up by pressing the tip of one finger inside Stan's ass. Stan's hips falter, and Ford takes the opportunity to grab one hip with his unoccupied hand and _hold him still_.

Stan whines. The fingertip inside him presses deeper, twisting a little like it's screwing in. It's not any specific kind of feeling yet. There's no pain or pleasure exactly, but the presence is enough for Stan's brain to start shorting out like an animatronic badger. He thinks he wants _more_.

"I—" he starts to say, only for the finger to leave him. He doesn't get the chance to object because Ford swipes up more lotion from his back and comes back slicker. The finger sinks in deeper this time as Stan gasps. Deeper it goes, until he feels Ford's knuckles flush against him.

"Oh," he sighs helplessly.

"Bad oh?" Ford asks. His voice sounds rough for the first time, and Stan appreciates that little human concession to fucking fingering a guy.

"Oh oh," Stan says stupidly; he at least refrains from singing anything like "It's magic" after it. It's a near thing and would have been even stupider, but he escapes the urge.

"That's very helpful, Stanley."

"There's a finger up my butt; forgive me for not wording too good," Stan says, getting himself together and sounding the tiniest bit high-pitched.

"Would you like there to _stop_ being 'a finger up your butt'?" Ford asks slowly.

"We're getting acquainted; it's fine," Stan says, and to show how fine it is, he wiggles his ass. It's a whole new sensation that Stan wasn't looking out for. The sound he makes after that would mortify a man with more intact shame.

"Well," Ford says, sounding distracted. "I'll take that as encouragement." He starts gently pushing in and out, and Stan shoves his face back into the mattress.

Even though it's dumb, _exceptionally_ dumb, a little bit of embarrassment creeps up on him. He feels exposed, though he's not any more naked than he was before. It can't be that Ford's inside him. Stan's sucked his cock; that has to count, but maybe he's more vulnerable this way. There's not like, _teeth_ in his ass.

Laughing at his own dumb thoughts turns out to be an idea on par with wiggling; the laughter shifts so many muscles that it makes the gentle thrusting just different enough. Stan grunts. Ford pulls out 

"Don't tell me you're ticklish," he says flatly. Stan thinks he might be a little offended.

"No. What? I'm just… you ever have dumb thoughts during sex?"

"I'm probably not doing a good enough job if you are, but yes, I'm familiar with the concept. May I ask what made you laugh?" Ford says. He starts off a stiff but sounds so sincerely curious by the end that Stan smiles into the bed.

"Ass teeth," he confesses.

"Oh," Ford says. "No. Those aren't enjoyable." He pushes his finger back inside before Stan can ask what the hell that means, and that's… for the best. Stan _could_ ask, and Ford _might_ even answer, but…

Well, _Ford might answer._ That's deterrent enough. Stan's got other things to worry about, anyway, like how the finger is sliding more easily now and faster, too. This probably means, though Stan's not an expert here, that Ford's going to want to put another finger in soon.

The thought is intimidating and exciting and intimidating for _being_ exciting, and Stan's not about to let that stop him from charging headlong into something he might not actually be able to handle, so he swallows and says, "What're you waiting for?"

Ford pauses, finger halfway out of Stan's ass, and leans in to kiss Stan on the shoulder. The scarred one, Stan realizes. He shudders, and Ford says against his skin, "Are you sure you're not letting your ego run away with you?"

"What ego?" Stan asks, shaky and breathless. He lets go of the sheets to reach back and down and take hold of Ford's hand. "C'mon, Ford. You know I like your fingers."

And yeah, Stan mostly says that to get at Ford, but the truth of the matter is it's the truth of the matter, too. Ford always has been, always will be, Stan's better half, and the extra fingers are part of that.

It works, anyway. Ford sighs with feeling and lowers himself more so that his chest is touching Stan's back. It's now that Stan realizes Ford's at the very least shirtless, his bare skin against Stan's, and that's what Stan's focused on during the half-second it takes for Ford to pull his finger free before coming back with two.

"Ah," Stan gasps as he's stretched wider. He tries turning it into a less embarrassing sound —any less embarrassing sound— and fails. Ford mouths his shoulder for a hot second, wet and almost glorious enough to distract from the fullness, but then he pulls back and makes a disgusted sound.

"I regret that," he says.

" _What?_ "

"Lotion."

"You dork," Stan says.

"Poorly thought out on my part," Ford admits, and then, like he's changing the subject, he twists his fingers where they're half inside Stan. "How's this?"

"Guh," Stan manages. He's not convinced he likes this new level of being opened up yet, but he's willing to give it time. When Ford moves inside him, it drowns out every other feeling, and if it ever manages to be _good_ on top of that, Stan's probably going to be a goner.

For now, though, it's just more stretch, more feeling invaded and filled. Ford moves slowly for the first few strokes, but then he picks up the pace. He pulls out once to get more lotion, and Stan feels _empty_ while he does. He shouldn't. Zero fingers is the normal amount for his ass to have, but somehow he feels the absence and—

Okay, he likes this. He likes it when Ford pushes back inside, he likes it when the fingers in him get faster and twist a little, bending and it's like Ford's looking for—

"Fuck!" Stan gasps, his eyes clenched hard enough to see colors behind his eyelids as his ass clenches around Ford's fingers. That last thrust was fucking electric, hitting something very, very good, a stronger version of pressing his taint and enough that Stan thinks he might come for a second.

"Ah," Ford says. "There we are."

Stan can't even tell him to shove that tone. He moves his hips as much as he can with Ford still holding him and says, "Do that again."

"I'll try my best," Ford says genially and keeps sliding his fingers in and out of Stan's hole. There's enough lotion that the movement squelches obscenely, and Stan whimpers.

Ford hits that spot again, and Stan knows in the objective, "This is a map of your body, young man" way that it's his prostate. He's even had a doctor gripe at him for avoiding the "screening process" involving it, but there's a big damn difference between "this is a body part that exists" and "this is a body part that will make you _cry_ ," and the way Ford's rubbing it and thrusting against it has them coming up on that second category.

"Fuck, Ford," Stan moans, and his voice starts getting away from him. "C'mon, yeah, there, fuck."

"It's that good?" Ford asks, back against Stan's ear. "Tell me how you feel."

"Good, really— uh—- fuck. More."

"More?" Ford asks, but instead he pulls out and if this is the point where he turns out to have been messing with Stan, Stan absolutely will kill him. Luckily, Ford's just getting more lotion, and then he's back against Stan's ass with—

Three fingers. That has to be three because fuck, they stretch him even more, and it hurts now, the intrusion too intense and Ford keeps pushing in. Stan tries to shift away from it without thinking, but there's _nowhere to go_ ; his dick's already crushed tightly against the bed, and all the precome he's leaking isn't doing a damn thing to make the sheets any less rough. Twitching and panting, Stan's gently forced open until Ford's fingers are all the way inside.

He gulps in air, and the breaths shift him on those fingers, on his brother's beautiful fingers. The pain seems secondary to the intimacy.

That's what it is. Intimacy is what he's been feeling and struggling under, like the flip side of embarrassment. Ford stretching him open feels intimate in a strange new way. Stan can't even run from it.

"Alright?" Ford asks quietly.

"Yeah," Stan says, and he's telling the truth. It surprises him. "Move."

"Don't be bossy," Ford says, raging hypocrite that he is, but he does resume rocking in and out of Stan. His fingers twist again and then—

"Ford," Stan gasps, overwhelmed, pain and pleasure like bolts of lightning shooting up his spine and shorting out his brain. Ford fucks him, sharply and quickly. His fingers jab into Stan's ass, and they beat the last of Stan's reluctance out of him.

They're not even done, and Stan wants to do this again. He wants to do this _to_ Ford, wants to maybe even do it to himself for Ford, and he wants—

More. If he said it now, he's not sure he could take whatever it meant— another finger or maybe Ford's cock, pushing in and taking him, like a claim or like melding them into one body and—

Stan comes with a yell, his dick spurting between his stomach and the hotel sheets while his ass clenches and unclenches on Ford's fingers. Ford fucks him through it, pushing the orgasm out even harder until Stan cries with it.

He's never come this hard in his life. Fuck.

"God, Stanley," Ford says, sounding rough and gentle both. He kisses Stan's shoulder, his neck, the back of his head while Stan gasps for air. "You're wonderful," he says, but he's probably just too horny to think straight; no one would say that to Stan with full brain power on.

Stan wriggles weakly underneath him, and Ford's fingers slow their thrusting until they finally pull free. His asshole twitches in their absence, and Stan thinks vaguely, and probably pretty dumbly that maybe the empty feeling will stick with him.

"You're so good," Ford says, still talking utter nonsense. Stan gathers up enough brain power to scoff.

"Yeah right," he says. His voice hurts a little, and he wonders if anybody in the other rooms heard him yelling. He hopes so; that's the economy motel experience after all.

"You _are_ ," Ford insists. His hands —both of them, and Stan now has to consider that he'll never think of Ford's right hand quite the same again— squeeze Stan's hips. He keeps dropping sweet kisses everywhere, and Stan wants to roll over and make out despite the growing lethargy taking him hostage.

"Let me turn over," Stan says, so that Ford pulls back. It's easier said than done to flop over onto his back. He just manages with a little help from Ford's hands, and then Stan's looking up at him in mild wonder.

It's not only Ford's chest that's bare. His whole body is on display as he moves to straddle Stan's torso, settling down on his stomach with his cock fully hard and leaking. His hands have been on Stan the whole time, so he must have started off naked.

Stan should probably at some point before they die accept that Ford really does want him, but it's only been a couple weeks and Stan thinks he can be forgiven for slow learning at his age. He's _a senior citizen_.

"How you doing there, handsome?" he asks Ford, expecting a scoff or something. He doesn't get one. Ford lies down on top of him instead, to kiss Stan open-mouthed and wet. Between their stomachs, his cock rocks back and forth over skin still slick with lotion and Stan's own come, and Stan grabs Ford's hips to help him out.

His belly should be, for any reasonable person, a turn-off he has to compensate for, but despite the random asides about staying in shape and eating better that crop up when Ford's feeling snippy, Ford doesn't actually seem to mind. In fact, once he's got Stan's head holding still, he drops one hand away to slide it between them. He presses his cock down with an open palm so that it rubs harder against Stan's stomach. The head catches the edge of his belly button every now and then, but he just keeps thrusting.

Stan moans into the messy kisses and not thinking too hard about it, reaches out to grab Ford's ass. He pulls him even closer, and taking a moment of initiative, he slides one finger between Ford's cheeks, thinking to maybe—

Ford pushes off him suddenly, flops to his back next to Stan, and strokes himself for a couple of ridiculously hot seconds before coming over his own hand and stomach. Stan gapes at the sight, and he is physically incapable of getting hard again anytime soon, but his _brain_ feels like it comes watching Ford.

That's probably not a thought to share with Ford. He's probably literally fucked a brain at some point. _Ass teeth,_ sweet Moses.

"Oh dear," Ford says eventually. Stan chuckles at him, but when he tries to roll over and maybe tangle himself up with Ford —just a little cuddle, who's gonna judge— he gets pushed back.

"Hey," Stan says, hurt.

"You've showered. I haven't and am now more of a mess."

"What—" Stan looks down at his come on his stomach. "Think we already wrecked that state of cleanliness there."

"No need to make matters worse," Ford says utterly too seriously for a man who just orgasmed— and pretty hard if Stan's any judge. There's something very off about the way Ford's brain is wired, though Stan loves him for it.

"Suit yourself." Stan settles for grabbing one of Ford's hands on is own. It's the right one. Stan's going to be thinking about this for a while.

He gets maybe three minutes of that before Ford's up again, so he's left to lie back and watch Ford stand, which isn't exactly a bad view. He's got a couple of scars, a couple of delightfully ridiculous tattoos, but Stan's never seen anyone who looks better _to him_.

"You gonna shower?" he asks as Ford stretches his arms above his head.

"In due time," Ford says. "Task to finish first."

He probably means whatever was going on with the map, or possibly some research on the little ghost thing. So Stan closes his eyes in contentment and means to sleep. exactly where he is. He distantly hears the sink in the bathroom run and then Ford walking back out.

Something warm and wet comes down on Stan's junk, and he jerks out of his daze to look down and watch in wonder as Ford wipes him off with a damp cloth. A _warm_ one even.

"Why're you—" Stan starts to ask, but he chokes. Can't get the words out around a lump of sentiment in his throat, and it doesn't go away even after he swallows. He lies still and lets it happen, too struck to stop it.

When Ford finishes cleaning him off, he sets the cloth aside on the nightstand next to the cheap little alarm clock. He stays like that, just a while, before turning back to Stan and leaning in to press their foreheads together.

"If you could refrain from dying," he says, voice carefully blank. "I would appreciate that, Stanley."

Stan chuckles the lump out of his throat. "What, don't tell me I scared you."

"Momentarily, yes."

"Oh," Stan says. The lump is back, damnit. "Oops?"

Ford rolls his eyes and pulls away. He grabs the bottle of lotion from off the mattress and drops it on Stan's stomach. "Maybe while I'm showering you can tend to your legs."

"Ford." Stan grabs his arm before he walks off. He slips down from wrist to hand, giving Ford a small squeeze. "Thanks," he says.

Ford hesitates, but then he squeezes back before letting go. "It wasn't a chore," he says, quirking his lips.

"I'm always a chore," Stan says, smiling back. This earns him a flick to the nose, and then Ford goes and takes his shower.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to say, tbh.
> 
>  
> 
> [Have a tumblr post.](https://sock-lobster.tumblr.com/post/171383473170/another-thing-though-this-one-without-any)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading? <3


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